Encouragement Perhaps

Writing

I love that moment, when the words begin to flow onto the page and my keyboard sounds like a gentle stream massaging rolling pebbles. I have finally finished a journey of earning a degree as a non-traditional student. There were may late nights and over 100 of mile round trip commutes. In the end it was worth it. Writing I feel is not much different than working out. Number 1, you have to show up. Number 2, you have to have a plan and start. Number 3, when it burns and you want to quit, keep going.

I have several stories that have been sleeping because of Water Statistics and Capstones. It is time to wake them up, to show up, plan, and keep the pebbles moving.

I was a few hours late to class because I was busy finishing some extra work at the print shop. I paused in confusion on my way up the stairs. “What do you mean? I am a hard worker, I always…”

He broke my words with a caring smile, “You are wasting energy on the wrong things. You are a Ferrari stuck in gridlock traffic hauling groceries.”

Now 16 years later, I realize that Professor Dunsmore may have been onto something. I have been playing it safe my entire adult life. I pour energy into things that I know I can win. Simple things. Grocery things. I apologize to the weak when I attempt to excel. When I don’t get the same fair treatment others get, when I am confused as to why I scare people, when I get that ache in my chest that feels like my heart is trying to fold itself into my spine, I realize… I don’t belong here. I belong on the open road. Writing books. People can not define my reality or choose where or when I will be successful. God gave me a gift, and gave me that job. I have been foolishly handing the reins of my life to someone else. “Here take this. Define me. Guide me. Promote me. Love me. Compliment me.” I only hope God forgives my stupidity. The reins of my life have been tossed to the ground yet again. This time when I pick them up, I am going to hold onto them. I am going to get to work, and I mean really get to work.

Professor Dunsmore was an ex-FBI agent / attorney that knew a thing or two about people in the world. He saw me sticking out like a sore thumb from the abundance of mediocrity. Yes, my drawing skills were sub-par and I was average with my 3D animation skills, but he saw something in the way I could tell a story. He could sense the potential lying dormant in a safe locked up storage room deep in my heart. I though I was keeping it protected, by avoiding difficulty and potential rejection. In reality, I was killing myself slowly inside every day because I wouldn’t let my talents live. My purpose is not to play it safe, and that will always leave me skewed and disproportionate in safe places. God made me tall. God made me bold. God made me an encouraging story teller. Every second I avoid doing those things 100%, I am a thief. A despicable coward. My gifts were not given to me to be locked away in storage. They belong to other people; to inspire, encourage, and protect them.

Talent is only a tiny seed, genetically formatted to grow into something massive. A seed needs nutrients, sunlight, water, and time. A seed encased in concrete will never do anything. One day someone is going to come looking for fruit from a tree that is not there. People will be starved and without my contributions to the world because I was scared.

I ask God for things that would violate my purpose, and I get crushed when I don’t get them. All this time I have wasted chasing easy things has to stop. Writing is hard. Telling the tale of ‘what was it like to be human’ is a daunting task.

What if the 17th book I write will be the one that gives my readers a good representation of the question? Aren’t those 16 failures bigger victories than any mediocre prize I might scrounge up playing it safe. The thrill is in the journey of letting talent rise up and live. Fear and ache will dissolve with disciplined repetition, muscle memory will take over and endurance will rise.

The groceries only make me fat and slow, wasting my time. It’s time to feed this hungry Ferrari the open road it was built for.

Fall wrapped itself around the mountains in a cold misty blanket. Rain wept for the lost summer season. Emily wore her oldest and most comfortable pajamas. The kids had already gone into school with their rain jackets and rubber boots. Her husband carried the soft memory of her farewell kiss to start his day. She was finally alone. Her eyes now caressed the items carefully placed in the home office. A small red ball played music on the shelf. Its black wire finding her ipod. Norah Jones and Keb Mo warmed the air in the room against the clear cold rain tickling the window. She took another sip of warm peppermint tea. The sharp flavor danced with her senses. The keyboard, and laptop conquered all of the available space on the wooden desk. She sighed, breathing in the moment as she pulled out her notebook. A delightful moment of writing drank her up as smooth and focused as the storm outside.

A blue pen lays on my wooden desk. Its soul is encased in transparent plastic shell. The tube of thick blue ink is a pipeline for my creativity to flow onto the page. Imprinting my words into immortal tales. “What was it like to be human?” Writing; a mighty force indeed.

The words my soul spills, are like bricks and wood. At first they are laid in a deep hole. Then covered with cold unforgiving dirt. A few more words, fall by the thousands. The structure and composition is better, but fire soon devours them. I build again, this time with knowledge of writing, an architect in my mind working along side my passion. The building of my words is strong. Someone pays me to look at it. They enjoy the experience. They smile, they cry, they read. I look at my structure and I realize I can build onto my skill, better, stronger. More words, stacking. This time I build, tear down, rebuild, polish, refine. Like a cathedral of my work, it is beautiful, many come. Some love it, some hate it, but it is there to be considered. Bricks and wood, one by one. Finite experience is only found within the building.

My triumph in writing, is to capture an emotion. Words, sentences, and paragraphs, are made and remade. Thick gray grease is wiped away from the lens of the minds eye. The image comes into focus, as draft after draft falls to the floor. When the reader finds it, the emotion may live again.